


Attrition

by Escutcheon



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-13
Updated: 2017-02-13
Packaged: 2018-05-06 11:22:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 17,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5414933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Escutcheon/pseuds/Escutcheon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being the Warrior of Light isn't an easy job. You tend to get hurt a lot in that line of work.<br/>In the end, there is no shame in leaning on others if the need arises. What <i>matters</i> is who you entrust with that responsibility.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Blizzard

Snow, you've wisely decided, is nowhere near as cozy as you used to think it was.

It's all well and good to be looking outside one's window with nothing but malms of white stretching in every direction, bundled up as one would be in a comforter with a cup of tea in one's hands. Even better with a hearth loaded generously with well seasoned wood for a clean burn to warm the feet by.

It's _less_ well and good to be trudging through said malms of white in every imaginable direction with no blanket, no tea, and _certainly_ no hearth.

Coerthas by virtue is not a welcoming place. It should've come as no surprise that nigh the moment your foot crossed the border from Gridania's sun-dappled grass to the path winding through the wilderness, the temperature had begun to drop at an alarming rate until your breath ghosted on the air in front of you and frost began to trace delicate designs on anything metal. That had been the first time you'd crossed. By now you've lost count how often you've shuttled back and forth by foot or chocobo; more than a dozen if you had to make a (very) loose estimate.

So, naturally, you'd thought nothing of a little snowfall by the time you'd set off on the second leg of your journey from the Observatorium - patting your sure-footed courier steed gently on the beak as you slid off the saddle. There would be no need to empty your pockets of more gil for a short jaunt to Camp Dragonhead with such a straight path, after all. You've made this trip many times and are well acquainted with the trail by now.

And then the fog set in.

In line with your usual luck, things had gone swiftly downhill from there. They had been small things at first; a stubbing of the toe, a few missteps on uncertain footing, that sort of nature.

Bit by bit, little by little, more problems started to present themselves.The occasional wandering Croc would come barrelling out of the white, harrying you for several minutes until finally giving up to look for easier prey. Later, a Gobbue wandered by - brushing a heavily laden tree in passing between you both and sending a small avalanche of snow down to bury you up to the thighs as you hastened to get out of it's way.The Gobbue burbled happily to itself with one spindly hand scratching at it's mossy rear and wandered away to leave you to the task of digging yourself to freedom, your teeth chattering while you valiantly brushed snow out of places it had no business being anywhere near.

  
Yes, by this point you were somewhat annoyed.

 Any other adventurer would have surely thrown in the towel by then and trudged back the way they came, doubtless to drown their misfortune in several mugs of whatever they could find; but whether simply because you are a particularly stubborn breed or more resilient to the elements, you simply pull your collar up a little further around your ears and march on, hands tucked in your armpits for what meager heat you can generate.

 _Hearths, hot tea._ You think longingly. _And dinner besides_.

Haurchefant would doubtless be more than pleased to be of service and would happily provide both meal and fireplace. The thought brings some warmth with it while you gracefully get a boot stuck in a tangle of roots hidden by the snowbank - the Elezen Lord is considerably chattier than you'd ever be able to keep up with, but he always seems genuinely interested in whatever small tasks you've completed.

He'd been comically excited over your smallest adventures and never failed to ask at least a dozen questions in his own uniquely _Haurchefant_ fashion. He's an odd fish for someone in charge of a Coerthan military fort. Sometimes you'd be retelling a story of some kind, a small thing of no particular importance in a voice soft with disuse, and look up from your tea or meal to find him watching you with bright eyes and a wistful smile. His expression would always change when he realized you'd stopped talking, however, and would never fail to make some lighthearted remark or press more food on you so the misstep would be promptly forgotten.

You'd never say anything about it, but you'd remember. Sometimes he'd touch your shoulder lightly as you spoke, which you always shrugged off as just a way to get your attention so he could ask a question. The more you look back on it... you weren't sure if that was always the case. Not all the touches were followed by a question or speaking of any kind on his part.

 

One would almost think --

 

Your musing is interrupted by a 'WHUMP' from behind you as a shower of displaced snow splatters down your back, prompting you to make an instinctive leap forwards to spin on your heel and draw your weapon as you go. A second or two passes in silence before a figure solidifies in the mist, darkening as the beast leans towards you in preparation for another pounce forwards and _hisses_ at you in clear threat.

 _Aevis._ You instantly recognize it by the blunt head and outstretched wings as it takes a crunching step forwards, weaving from side to side as you size each other up. In your experience, seeing one here is exceptionally unusual. Normally Dravanians of any sort tended to stay well north of Dragonhead or any of the surrounding area.

But then - as you dodge a lunge and bring your weapon up to skitter off thickly plated hide - you suppose if you were an arse-ugly flying creature with a taste for Karakul and men both, you'd pick a day of thick fog to skulk around and find a meal, wouldn't you? It's sound strategy. All the better to avoid the sentries stationed among the Skyfire Locks.

No doubt the sly thing was in the process of trailing you for Twelve knows how long but failed to consider an armed target would not be the most promising prey.

The only warning you have is the characteristic rearing of the dragon's head before it spits a lurid purple sphere of sparking levin directly at your chest, the energy dissipating with a sharp **SNAP** that you can feel jolt through you from teeth to toes. It stings of course - how could it not? - but you've weathered far worse, and aside from the slightest stagger, you right yourself as quickly as it strikes.

A small dragon should pose no problem for you, as experienced and storied an adventurer as you are. It's with great resignation that you sidestep a second belched energy sphere and meet it's lunge with a parry of your weapon before starting your battle in earnest.

There's a fire and a friend waiting in Dragonhead, after all.

 

You almost pity the Aevis.


	2. Fracture

How long has it been since the skirmish? You're not sure. It feels like days.

You grunt softly in pain as you step awkwardly over the bulk of a fallen pine stripped of all its needles, your fingers anchored in your own flesh to hold your most grievous wound closed. It does precious little to help - the snow in your wake is dotted with red where warmth and blood both have escaped from your rent armor in a dozen places.

 

For such a little thing, the Aevis had been nowhere as easy to repel as you had originally thought.

Its hide was as steel before your arm, offering no yielding surface to plant a sharp edge no matter how you probed for a chink in its scales. The struggle dragged on for quite some time - half a bell's worth of combat, at your reckoning - neither party caving to the other as talons, fangs, metal, and magic flew in tempestuous battle fever. An arena had been established in bushes trampled flat and churned mud, cloth and loose scales dotting the ground in random intervals, along with no little amount of blood from either party. You're quite sure you'd managed to knock one of its fangs out at some point, which brings at least a little wry smugness to your heart at the notion of the toothache that would no doubt cause in a day or two.

As you'd struggled to catch your breath and clutched your weapon like a lifeline, you could sense the deepset eyes of your foe assessing you in equal amounts of wary respect and frustration. Neither of you had a significant advantage over the other despite all efforts to the contrary. You'd failed to dodge only very few times, and the Aevis had managed to strike you thrice to any effect - the razor talons on its wings had torn deeply through your side, to be met with an answering riposte so savage you'd sheared cleanly though the heavy muscle and tendon of its shoulder, rendering one wing limp and useless as it dragged along awkwardly behind the beast. An equal trade in your eyes; it couldn't fly, and you couldn't flee. Perhaps at that stage, in whatever capacity of intelligence a dragon could have while you stared at each other, it came to the conclusion you were simply too much trouble to be bothered with. It had taken a single heavy step backwards... pausing a moment after in expectant stillness.

 

You'd also stepped back. Weapon still readied, posture taut as a bowstring, but clearly accepting the offer of a draw.

So it came to be that the Warrior of Light and the fierce little Aevis did reach a mutual agreement: eyes locked, mirrored step by cautious step in retreat until you were each lost to sight in the mist.

 

So here you are. Your cloak long since torn away and likely trampled somewhere for a wild animal to tear up for nesting material, freezing from eartips to toes while you valiantly strike out roughly in the direction of Dragonhead. At least you hope you're going in the right direction... One could hardly blame you for getting turned around as you have after being subjected to such a sound thrashing.

Precisely one hundred and six steps from your skirmish with the Aevis (you counted), you pause to rest, not bothering to breathe warmth into your fingers after losing all feeling in them. You can hardly afford to move the hand you have clamped down like a vise on your side as is. With a strictly practical air, you gauge you have only a small window of time to find shelter lest the sheer cold leech all the life from your body, well before you can expire ignominiously on Haurchefant's doorstep from massive blood loss.

On the upside, the aching in your side has stopped entirely. You could almost pretend to be perfect health if you ignore the streaks of lurid red frozen into your equipment.

 

You press on.

 

The first giant wall of Dragonhead that darkens the fog surprises you the most as you nearly lurch into it facefirst. You must've wandered too far on one side or the other. Gritting your teeth, you lean heavily against the icy stone with your free arm and stagger along in whatever direction you hazard a guess the closest entrance would be, hoping fervently that you've chosen the correct direction, and are quickly rewarded with half buried chocobo tracks to guide you along the last few yalms. You march up the path, between the lit braziers, through the gate, and slapbang into a **very** startled guardsman. You have enough presence of mind to give him an apologetic smile and make as if to wobble casually past, when he catches you by the upper arm just a moment before you can make a bigger fool of yourself by toppling on your nose into the dirt.

You can't rightly piece together what happens next. There are a few questions, understandably, which you answer either with a nod or a shake of your head (if you answer at all; thinking clearly at this point is starting to become a little beyond your capabilities and some questions are met with a noncommittal bob of your shoulders) whilst being lead towards the infirmary. A second guard joins the first to help take your weight as they half walk, half drag you along. Your strength rapidly wanes. You're running on fumes.

 

_What in the Fury's name were you doing out there?_

_What happened? You look a fright!_

And finally,

_Should I fetch Lord Haurchefant?_

 

At the last, you shake your head emphatically - dear gods would you'd be embarrassed to be seen in such a state, explanation notwithstanding - but the second knight calls out into the fog and is answered by another guardsman further away in acknowledgement before you can dredge up enough energy to voice a protest. It seems whether you like it or not (and you most certainly do not), you're going to be visited in short order by your eccentric friend. Likely with plenty of hot beverages, which in truth you don't mind the thought of quite as much.

Despite the guards trying to keep you awake with the occasional nudge, you blearily realize they're now bearing all of your weight as you sag forwards like a marionette with it's strings cut, your boots dragging furrows behind you. But then, abruptly, there's candlelight and warmth, the scent of herbs and sterile linen cloth. A harried looking Hyur woman starts up from the table by the doors, elbows past your anxiously hovering guards, and grabs your face with both hands to hold your wandering gaze. Her expression is pinched as she fires off a rapid jabber of meaningless words that you can't even begin to try keeping up with.

 _Rude old bird._ The thought hits you from way out in left field as you squint at her in complete bafflement. You instantly decide you don't like her on the grounds that she simply refuses to stop swimming in and out of focus. The healer lets you go after getting no answers, and your head drops to your chest to let you stare at the spotless floor instead. They keep it well swept in here, apparently.

It's not much longer after reaching that conclusion that you recognize a familiar voice in the background raised in concern and someone insistently shaking of your shoulder, which you simply can't be arsed to respond to. It's awfully nice of Haurchefant to visit you at the moment, but it's just that you're so very _tired_ and didn't he know you haven't eaten yet and naturally you'd like to stuff your face in peace for a little while? Maybe if you ignore everyone they'll leave you alone. In fact, you really can't be bothered to be hungry right now either.

Gods, why can't people stop pestering you for attention?

What were you planning on doing again?

You realize, in spite of your fading awareness and your advanced delirium, that they've wrestled you over to a bed and are in the process of packing you into every available blanket they can reach. A hand gently rests on your forehead, thumb tracing soothing sweeps over your frozen skin.

You vaguely note that hand is pleasantly warm before closing your eyes.

 

You could _really_ use a nap.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hot damn, can those Dravanians pack a punch. We'll call it a draw!
> 
> I only did a little loose research on symptoms of hypothermia and hypovolemic shock, but hopefully all the major symptoms were covered. WoL ain't going nowhere for a while yet.


	3. Physick

Waves of comfort wash over you as you wake once more.

 

Soft cloth presses against your cheek, warmth in abundance cocooning your body as you drowsily soak in the luxury of what can only be called complete and utter pampering under a small mountain of blankets. There's a fire somewhere crackling merrily in the hearth. The glow suffuses your eyelids invitingly, and before you know it, you've managed to sleepily crack one eye open to get a bearing on your surroundings.

Stone walls. Tall oaken furniture. The scent of leather, metal, and oil for weaponry. Camp Dragonhead, then.

 

"Awake now, are we? What a relief." Blinking owlishly, you peer over the blankets tucked under your chin as an elderly Hyur totters in the open doorway, familiar in a way that means you must have at least spoken before. You remember something to do with a Gorgotaur, and a momento... Meduil was it? Yes, that must be it. The recognition must show on your face, because she gives you a patient smile in return and seats herself by your bedside in the cautious fashion of those whose joints have stiffened with age.

"You gave us quite a fright, my dear. All torn up in pieces you were, when the chirurgeon could have a look at you." Meduil neatly laces her fingers in her lap, and you absently note the tracery of veins under skin as fine as parchment on the back of her hands. "You're to stay abed until the head physician says otherwise. Not a single foot outside either, as I've been told. Plenty of rest and medicine each day." You certainly don't agree with _that_ idea. Your face reflexively scrunches up at the thought of whatever vile potions you'd be required to choke down, and stubbornly shake your head in refusal. No mad scientist is going to physick you to death after what you've survived, if you have anything to say about it! No way no how. Not up for discussion.

Meduil doesn't seem at all bothered by it. Quite the contrary, she chuckles and straightens her dress, giving you a disconcertingly knowing look over her glasses that makes you very uneasy. "Turn up your nose all you like, lass. The healers will insist. They're a sly lot, probably already thought up how to make you take your doses."

Well. You'll see about that.

The conversation carries on for a while, mostly on Meduil's end, until she excuses herself to finish whatever tasks she has for the day and leaves you alone to drift off again shortly thereafter.

 

Rattling of china and the shuffle of footsteps isn't what wakes you, but a featherlight touch on your forehead pulls you out of your dreams as surely as a skilled fisherman reels in his catch. A visitor? Again? You can't think of anyone you know so well as to want to see you unconscious for the better part of visiting hours. Certainly none that would be so brazen as to openly touch you in any way.

Unless it's a _healer_. Twelve forfend.

Under the pretense of shifting in your sleep, you turn your head to face the source of the noise and ever so slightly open your eyes to peek out at a pair of legs standing alarmingly close by. Whoever it is, they now have their back to you, and you seriously consider the merits of bolting upright and fleeing in all your gimped glory down the stairs and out the door to glorious freedom before you have mystery medicine forced down your throat.

Apparently sensing your eyes on them, the figure straightens, glances over their shoulder, and it's --

"Ah! Splendid! You _are_ awake!"

Haurchefant beams at you with delight as he turns with a gently steaming mug in hand, and in moving in such a way gives you a glimpse of a tray he's brought in with him. A bowl of soup and what looks to be a small piece of grilled Eft meat on a plate. No wonder you didn't recognize him; gone is the usual haubergeon, instead replaced by a comfortable tunic of modest design that suits him just as much as his armor. You suppose there isn't much reason to go around wearing it at all hours of the day if the knights are permitted downtime. You get awfully stiff in your armor too now and then.

"I must confess, I have been quite beside myself with worry on your behalf. You've been completely out cold for _days_!" He sounds almost petulant as he completely ignores the small chair in the room to sink down on the edge of your cot, mug cradled in both hands. You're hardly surprised when the pleasant scent of hot cocoa wafts over to you. "You need only ask if you wished to stay ere long at Camp Dragonhead. I believe I made such an invitation before, did I not?" He heaves a dramatic sigh, and gives you an outrageously hurt look, as if you've gone and kicked his puppy. It would almost make you feel guilty if not for the upward curve of his mouth. His 'invitation' had been less of a general stay and more a private tour of his bedchambers if you recall correctly; certainly not an occasion you would have liked to participate in at the time, with Alphinaud within earshot. The completely unimpressed look you shoot him simply makes his smile widen, and he gives you an unashamed, cheeky waggle of an eyebrow.

"Alas, I shall simply have to settle for the meager task of nursing you back to health. What a dreary fate. Now, can you sit up? I've brought you something to eat."

Sitting up proves to be such a difficult enough obstacle on its own that you're given the nasty surprise of how sickly you've become. You're weaker than a newborn coeurl kitten - your arms lack strength, and any exertion along your abdomen gives you a sharp pain in your side. Haurchefant generously takes it upon himself to prop you up against your pillows and hereby invite himself into your personal space, resting your back against his shoulder while he helps you sip your cocoa. You somewhat uneasily settle in against his side, one of his arms curled around you gently to keep you upright and his other hand cupped over your own.

 

He smells of pine and woodsmoke. His silver hair soft where it brushes your brow when he sometimes ducks his head to speak to you.

 

Ever the practical sort, you elect to forcibly ignore his close proximity and instead focus on your food. The soup is richly flavored broth with generous helpings of meat and vegetables (Karakul flank, Haurchefant had claimed, while he coaxed you to taste from the soup spoon balanced in his fingers) and even the Eft steak isn't so bad once you get used to the slightly rubbery texture. Your Elezen friend takes great glee in feeding you dainty mouthfuls by the fork or spoon while he chatters on about all and sundry that's happened since the last time you've passed through Coerthas. They're rebuilding a crumbled section of the ramparts, and one of the recruits had managed to get himself kicked in a _tender_ area by a chocobo once, and so on and so forth. You dutifully nod when you can, or make agreeable noises when your mouth isn't full of either soup or grilled Eft.

You've demolished every speck and crumb when you're full to bursting and simply can't fit another mouthful. Haurchefant grins at you and takes the liberty of dabbing at the corner of your mouth with the handkerchief he's brought (just for appearances sake in your opinion - you never have been a messy eater) before reaching into his pocket to pull out a small glass vial to waggle back and forth in front of your nose. "Food that physicks maketh flesh proof against cold, I like to say. But you needs must take precautions."

You eye the vial with resignation. At least it's a small dose, but... well. It's this unappetizing shade of greyish green, and you would _really_ rather not have it anywhere near your tongue.

Refusal is hardly an option with Haurchefant watching you with an expectant look on his face though, and you meekly nod so he can uncork it for you. He lets you take the vial yourself so you tip it back into your mouth.

And it's..

 

 

It's...

 

 

 

Gods, it's as disgusting as you'd ever dreamed. The taste is enough to make your eyes water (By the Twelve, does it have to be so swiving _bitter_?), and you splutter and cough until he hands you his own cup of cocoa to gulp a mouthful from, not caring that it scalds your tongue so long as you don't feel like your mouth is shriveling down to the size of a grape. You don't notice him trying valiantly not to laugh until your ordeal is over and the medicine is only an unpleasant lingering aftertaste at the back of your throat. No doubt this is what Meduil had meant by 'planned dosage strategy' when you'd spoken earlier.

 

 

You grimly decide you'll never voluntarily swallow another mouthful of such foul poison. This is _war_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Those wascally, wascally, healers. They didn't bother to even try making that stuff taste bearable.


	4. Feint

For a full two days have you been kept on a strict schedule of bedrest and medicament; you've successfully avoided two doses of mystery elixir by feigning sleep and pouring out the disgusting substance into a potted plant on the windowsill on the sly. So far nobody is any the wiser and likely assume you've choked it down through sheer will alone.

By the third day, you're confident you can make good on your escape.

Granted, it won't be easy. Your jailers - for lack of a better term - keep a careful watch over you more often than not, keeping track of your progress and changing the dressing on your wounds daily. The deep gash on your side has many stitches and itches fiercely from whatever poultice they've slathered on to draw out lingering infection and promote the knitting of flesh and skin; you keep reminding yourself to  _not tear yourself open again_ when the itching reaches a fever pitch. It's not the fault of the physicians. They mean well, of course, but you wouldn't even wish this treatment on your worst enemy.

The one upside to house arrest is the amount of time you've had to cook up your own jailbreak.

It's morning.

Time to put your plan into motion.

 

 

You wait patiently for the night shift chirurgeon that's been keeping an eye on you for the past several hours to rise from his seat by the door, muffling a yawn in his sleeve as he shuffles over and leaves a vial of medicine on your bedside table under the charmingly naive notion that you'd take it upon waking. You listen to his footsteps echo down the stairway, and the creaking of the door downstairs as he exits the building to fetch his daytime replacement. They've been working in shifts, and your entire scheme hinges on the time it takes for him to cross the Camp.

With some difficulty, you count down in your head while you slowly sit up and swing your legs off your cot. The rush of vertigo takes only a moment or two to subside, and you're on your feet and limping as quickly as you can towards the stairs.

 

 _Forty_.

The steps are cold under your toes, and you have to grab at the wall to stabilize yourself before you go tumbling down arse over teakettle. It's slow going. Still, progress is progress, right? You've made allowances for just this occasion in your strategizing and calmly continue descending at a pace you can handle.

 _Thirty_.

Medguistl gives you a startled look when you reach the main floor where she stands with her hands covered in flour at the modest oven; you place a finger to your lips in a shushing gesture and look at her with such a pleading expression that she simply shrugs and turns back to her work. Whatever you're up to, she wants no part of it.

 _Twenty_.

To your great relief, your boots and an extra cloak are bundled up in a neat package by the door. You waste no time pulling them on and securing the hood around your head, drawing the cloak close around your body as you brace yourself for the chilly morning sun. The tunic and leggings they've provided you are utilitarian in nature and likely won't keep you very warm on their own. On the contrary, you suspect they may in fact have been slapped together from discarded popoto sacks. The fabric can't in good faith be called 'silky' in texture.

 _Ten_.

There's a pressing need to hurry at this stage. The gust of cold chills you to the very bones, knifing through your cloak and thin clothing as if you're wearing nothing at all. You set your shoulders and make do by tucking your arms close to your body, forcing yourself to walk as normally as possible towards the tunnel beneath the aetheryte. Nobody gives you a second glance. Adventurers are a common sight around the area, and one more hooded figure goes entirely unnoticed.

 _Five_.

You suspect your absence has been noted by now. Chuckling, you make for Haurchefant's office and glance furtively in both directions at the end of the tunnel before venturing out into the wan daylight once more. Instead of walking up the steps, however, you make a sharp left turn and move along the side of the building instead. From there, you pause. Listening...

 _Zero_.

" **What do you mean she's _GONE?!_** "

 

There it is. Your smug expression only grows as the faint, unmusical strains of a vigorous argument drifts to you like a welcome breeze on a sunny day. Victory has never tasted so sweet.

You listen for as long as you can stand being outside, then turn and give the latch to the Intercessory an experimental tug. You're so wrapped up in the satisfaction of a job well done that you don't notice the door is, in fact, locked up tighter than a Ul'dahn merchant's purse strings. Not until you give it a second yank, anyway. It seems this isn't a door left unlocked very often - a security feature you hadn't even thought of that now seems blatantly obvious in hindsight. Frowning, you squint at the handle and jiggle it a few times, hoping against hope it's just frost gumming up the mechanism. When that fails to work, you settle for giving the timber a hard boot... followed by a great deal of pain as you ever so gracefully stub your toe.

"Is it perhaps a key you require, dear lady?"

Haurchefant's voice is low as he speaks directly into your ear, one hand landing with damning weight on your shoulder. You didn't even hear him sneaking up on you.

 

Busted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gone in Sixty Seconds: FFXIV Edition.


	5. Asylum

"Dear friend, you needn't look at me with such sad eyes! You didn't think I would be so heartless as to drag you back, did you?"

Haurchefant chuckles, giving your shoulder a comforting pat. There's no doubt in your mind that you look a lot like a dog caught with the remains of the family dinner strewn around it. Which is to say... very, very guilty. You offer a sheepish shrug in return, shuffling a little from foot to foot to ease the dull throbbing of the toes you'd jammed into the door up until he takes he initiative to steer you back out from the alley into the watery morning daylight.

He wastes little time whisking you around the corner, up the steps, and into his office, making sure you're settled in a chair with a cup of tea prior to dragging a seat over for himself beside you. The great wooden desk he's usually poring over is covered in stacks of paper sorted in neat piles, each covered in spidery writing you can't read upside down or from such a distance; likely requisitions or orders in keeping with his station to judge from the wax stamps sealing the letters shut. He must've been on the way to the kitchen to get something to eat when he'd bumped into you.

It isn't uncommon for him to visit from time to time when his schedule permits. And, eyeing the shirtless sweaty men exercising in the corner, you can't fault him for not wandering outside very often.

"Were you not content where you were?" He watches you gently blowing on the surface of your teacup with his elbow on the table and his cheek resting in one hand. His eyes sparkle in poorly concealed laughter as you give him a _very_ deadpan stare and make a point to shake your head slowly from side to side to express the gravity of the situation. But, rather than seeming apologetic about how very cross you now look, he airily motions with a hand as if to shoo away your temper - his facetious sense of humor is In fine form today. "My deepest apologies. I would be pleased to have you and your belongings moved elsewhere, if you wish. Somewhere off the main thoroughfare... the safest of bastions, to ease your worries."

Haurchefant taps his chin thoughtfully while you brave a larger pull of your drink. The gods must be having quite the show at your expense, because at the same time of you managing to gulp some down he brightens and exclaims, " _My_ quarters, perhaps?"

 

You promptly choke on your tea.

 

"Yes, that should do us nicely. The bed is perfectly large enough for two." He muses, apparently giving the matter some serious thought. You splutter in panicked haste to voice a protest while he distractedly pats you on the back to help you clear your throat. "I daresay there's naught else that can be arranged in reasonable time. Corentiaux, a word if you please-"

Aghast, you manage only to make an incredulous noise somewhere along the lines of 'huh?' before he's already up on his feet and striding over to his lieutenant - who in your opinion is looking a touch too amused to have been simply standing at ease and minding his own business by Haurchefant's desk despite the expression of polite disinterest he's managed to school his features into. You squint suspiciously between them as they talk quietly - only meaningless snatches of which you can hear if you strain for it - the conversation seems to be mostly an excess of enthusiastic hand gestures from Haurchefant and dutiful nodding from his subordinate.

 

Thal's balls. Perhaps you'd have been better off just shutting up and taking your medicine with dignity.

 

Your eyes bore into Corentiaux's spine as he walks out the door, off on whatever errand Haurchefant has sent him on, while the Lord himself practically bounces on his way back over to you. This is clearly some punishment for not being the talkative type; words tend to desert you completely when they're needed the most.

"How wonderful! Exciting! _Splendid_!" Is that an honest to gods blush on his face? Floored, you gape at him in absolute astonishment as he takes your hand between his own in earnest, chattering away as happy as a lark in complete and utter obliviousness to your bewildered state. This must be what it feels like to get kicked in the head by a chocobo - you can make heads nor tails of what's just happened to you, and there's a very good chance you'll get a splitting headache by dawn tomorrow. To your alarm, Haurchefant has taken the bit in his teeth (ha ha, horse pun not intended) and is in full slumber party overdrive. Like any other trainwreck you can only watch the spectacle in awe as the delicate pink flush on his cheeks darkens in excitement. You're in for quite a show. "What a magnificent opportunity to strengthen the bond of friendship! What shall we do first? Read a book together? Play a game of Triple Triad? Oh! Or even bake something! Perhaps after dinner -"

Definitely should've shut up and taken your medicine.

Before he can whip himself into any more of a frenzy and possibly vibrate in excitement right off his chair, the double doors behind you swing open to reveal Corentiaux, arms full with what you recognize as all your armor, weapons, and miscellany, as well as a second person that you've seen only once. You recognize the glare immediately - an enraged basilisk can't hope to match the absolute malevolence radiating from this woman's eyes. It's the same Hyur that so rudely grabbed your face when you'd been dragged in half-conscious a few days prior. You note she isn't as old as you originally thought... but the scowl on her face certainly does nothing to make her seem youthful in any sense of the term.

 

" **HAURCHEFANT**!"

 

 

All activity in the hall screeches to a halt. Heads turn - recruits frozen mid-squat in their exercises to stare wide-eyed at the door.

Jolted from his reverie, Haurchefant glances at the irate head healer (for it must be she, the satchel at her waist and the slightly askew hat announces that much at least) and offers her a glittering grin full of charm. Out of sight under the table, he gives your hand a reassuring squeeze. It doesn't do much for your nerves, but you do feel a little better for the gesture. Hurriedly, you set down your tea in case you need to escape out a window or somesuch in case of an... emergency.

Seriously. One hint of off-green syrup and you're out of there.

"Sauveterre! What superb timing. The Warrior of Light was just telling me how exemplary your services have been. Up and walking so quickly? I must say, I am very impressed!" You have the good sense not to show your surprise, but simply nod and give her a placating smile, which does nothing to quench the fury in every step as she stomps over the threshold. Really, it's a miracle each of her feet hasn't punched neat, boot shaped holes in the stone.

Luckily for you, she merely spares you a dismissive glance to focus the brunt of her anger at the serenely untroubled Lord of Dragonhead instead. Corentiaux feigns complete unconcern for the exchange and begins neatly arranging your things on the table at your elbow for your perusal.

"So this is your doing, is it?" She stabs a finger in your direction with such violence, you flinch away automatically. "This is a seriously injured patient that _should be resting in bed,_ my lord. Right now. This instant. Exposure to cold and physical strain at this stage of recovery is dangerous. Furthermore, such reckless behavior is absolutely unacc-"

Haurchefant interrupts with one lifted hand, his voice still cheerful as ever in total irreverence for whatever heinous crime Sauveterre is accusing him of. "I quite agree. In fact, our brave Warrior has graciously agreed to be relocated here, under my care, to lighten the burden of you and your men. Tis only a matter of securing correct medicament and measurement for dosage." You can see the smug satisfaction in his eyes as she deflates a little from frothing rage to slightly less murderous irritation while considering this new development. It seems Haurchefant is well acquainted with the means to defuse a situation before it becomes a problem. "If you would be so good as to write a list of tasks which must be fulfilled daily..."

Sauveterre shoots you an appraising stare, brows furrowed slightly, but allows herself to be ushered out under the pretense of fetching the supplies required for your shift in residence. You can hear her querulous tone start up again outside and fade as she crosses the camp.

 

Ahh. Sweet, sweet freedom. You release the breath you've been holding and sag a little against your chair, passing the back of one hand in exaggerated relief over your forehead. A few of the recruits chuckle while they return to exercising.

 

 

You hope Haurchefant has the foresight to have a second cot placed in his quarters, but on the other hand, you don't particularly mind the idea of having him close by. He has a strangely protective quality about him, and you can't help but feel safe in his presence. As absurd as that statement sounds - the Warrior of Light, feeling safe around some Ishgardian officer - it has the ring of truth about it.

As if sensing your thoughts, he turns to you and his smile widens, his eyes bright with mischief and triumph in in equal measure.

 

He still hasn't released your hand.


	6. Repose

Your short adventure has cost you more than you'd originally calculated.

 

Sauveterre hadn't been joking when she said you weren't ready for excessive physical stress or fluctuations in temperature - your legs feel like cooked noodles, and aside from some halfhearted motions to get up from your chair once or twice (casually, so as not to call attention to yourself), you don't manage to accomplish much more than to shuffle your seat awkwardly a few inches from one side to the other. It seems you've spent what recovery you've managed on your grand escape scheme.

You mentally steel yourself for what will undoubtedly be an interesting challenge after dinner to walk unassisted to wherever your bunk is for the night. Will you be actually sharing a bed with a certain Elezen? Probably. Are you going to actively acknowledge that possibility? Nope.

You're a firm believer in the saying 'I'll cross that bridge when I get to it'.

 

Fortunately, that thought is left for later. Right now, you're somewhat busy picking at the mountain of food Haurchefant has enthusiastically piled on your plate for dinner; it seems he's taken on the mantle of your caretaker with gusto, considering you can barely see the modest portion of red meat and rye bread in front of you over what looks to be a mountain of gently steaming vegetables...

 

Eyeing the veggies with a resigned sigh, you set to very slowly working your way through your dinner. It's... actually not too bad! Your eyebrows raise a little in surprise as you chew thoughtfully on a mouthful of greens, trying to identify the ingredients. Pepper for certain... cream, a bit of cheese... although there's a slight fishy taste to it that you can't quite put your finger on. You make a mental note to thank Medguistl for her phenomenal culinary skills at some point during your stay. Deciding that such superbly cooked mystery veggies are acceptable, you spear some on your fork and take the opportunity to study Haurchefant at his desk while you happily stuff your face with hearty Coerthan fare.

Lord Haurchefant, in your humble opinion, is clearly overworking himself.

At least that's what it looks like from this angle. As you tear the crusty bread in half to mop up some of the sauce on your plate, you note the dark circles around his eyes and the slightest squint that hints towards strained eyesight from reading letters all day. That would explain the unlit candle at the corner of his desk - he must labor well into the night with only the faintest of light to work by. You aren't terribly surprised by this new discovery in all honesty. Haurchefant strikes you as the type of man to throw himself into his duties one hundred and ten percent. Not resting, though... well, you can respect his choices, but you don't necessarily agree with them.

He puts down his quill with a barely audible sigh and gently massages his temples with his fingertips, eyes closed for a moment or two, then glances up at you under the fringe of his hair. You give him a sympathetic look, and he smiles wryly. It's only after you cock an eyebrow and make a blatant stare between him and the stacks of paperwork he's forged through that Haurchefant lowers his hands to his desk.

"Pray, you needn't worry about me. This is quite normal." He nods at your plate. "How do you fare, my friend? Is your meal satisfactory?"

Seeing as you rarely speak as is and your mouth is currently full with bread, you give him a thumbs up in lieu of agreement while you fish around for a piece of meat hidden under a wilted leaf.

 

He nods and sets back to his tasks, leaving you both in companionable silence broken only by the soft tapping of your fork against your plate or the shuffle of footsteps as knights cross and re-cross the floor on errands unknown for the next hour. In the end, you don't manage to finish all of your dinner, but you've put a sizeable dent in it and are pleasantly full to boot. You'd call that a victory for certain. Quietly, so as not to disturb Haurchefant (who at this point is bent with concentration over a letter he's drafted at least twice to judge from the crumpled rejects at his elbow) you push your creaking chair back from the table and gingerly attempt to stand.

You wobble alarmingly for a moment and right yourself with a little leaning on the table for stability. Progress!

Just as you're considering taking a few tentative steps to try navigating to bed on your own, a hand gently grasps your elbow to both get your attention and to offer you support.

 

"Might I offer some assistance?" It's Corentiaux that's helping you stand. He must have been keeping watch over you while going about his business tidying up and dispatching recruits. He graciously offers you the crook of his arm to hold on to - a gentlemanly gesture that makes you a little self-conscious despite the fact it's merely for convenience's sake - which you accept. As he patiently walks you to the door, pausing to make certain you're bundled up in a cloak before setting foot outside, you note out of the corner of your eye that Haurchefant has straightened from writing his letter to observe your escorted egress with a queerly pinched expression that you've never seen him wear before. He seems almost... annoyed.

The doors swing shut behind you, and Corentiaux takes the lead.

 

As it turns out, your destination isn't far at all. The door prior to the Intercessory had always been locked tight with no signs of entry in your previous visits, so you'd always assumed it was just another storage room with nothing of interest. The knight at your side rummages around in his pocket, surfaces with a key, and opens the door; the faint scent of pine and soap tickles your nose as you're guided inside. Corentiaux only stays long enough to make certain you're comfortable and all your needs are met before excusing himself - but not before giving you the key he'd used to unlock the door.

"I was told you would need this. Lord Haurchefant wishes for you to have the freedom to come and go as you wish."

And, with a parting nod, he closes the door behind himself with a faint 'click' of the mechanism locking back in place. You're alone.

 

 

In Haurchefant's room.

 

 

Well then. This isn't quite what you've expected.

You had been dead certain the room you're now standing in would be all rich excess. Thick, plush carpets, a four-poster bed, perhaps a few hunting trophies on the walls... but there's none of that. Quite the contrary - the furnishings are quite sparse aside from a few small comforts here and there which are modest in magnitude. A small table, a fireplace, a standing rack for armor. Basic things befitting of a soldier, or a knight. The bed, which you belatedly take a seat on to unlace your boots, is not quite as large as you'd imagined, but roomy enough to accommodate two people. Haurchefant hadn't been fibbing after all. Huh.

What _really_ grabs your attention is the tin bathtub tucked away in the corner behind a screen for privacy, with a small wooden bucket for fetching water. In hindsight it makes the most sense in being the one true luxury Haurchefant might have. You've rarely - if ever - seen him truly caked-on with dirt and muck before. Perhaps he'll let you use it if you ask.

You make short work of peeling off your clothing, and appropriate some of Haurchefant's spares as a set of nightclothes. His shirt is rather too large, with the sleeves reaching well past your fingertips, and the pants are inclined to be a mite longer in the leg than you could ever be, but you fold a few things here and there to make it work. The fabric is soft against your skin as you slide under the thick covers, not-so-gently thump one of the pillows into shape, and curl up on the furthest side of the bed you can manage without being plastered up against the stone wall.

 

 

Just as you think you're finally drifting off after shivering for a good twenty minutes (as it turns out, being closest to the wall isn't your brightest idea - the stone radiates cold), the door rattles a little followed by the click of the latch retracting and footsteps as your bedmate enters. He's trying very hard to be quiet - you keep your eyes shut with the blanket pulled up to your nose, feigning sleep to save yourself the embarrassment of greeting him from _his own bed_ \- only by the occasional auditory clue can you tell where he is in relation to the room as well as what he's doing. The bed creaks a little as a weight settles on the edge, the soft chime of chainmail informing you that there's some definite _removal of clothing_ going on.

You opt not to take a peek despite the temptation.

The blanket finally lifts, and a second body slides in next to your own. Haurchefant must be perched on the very edge of the mattress - the gap between you is generous enough to be respectful of your space, to his detriment - you appreciate the gentlemanly gesture, of course, but sacrificing his own comfort for your own isn't what you have in mind. He can't run Camp Dragonhead on so little sleep. Not _well_ at any rate. He's not the type to invade your personal space without invitation - the same invitation which you can't extend without making the situation unbearably awkward.

So, being the sly little plotter you are, you make sure to shiver **extra** hard and exhale shakily, curling up on yourself until only the top of your head is showing above the blankets.

 

You can hear him turn his head on his pillow to look at you, the silence as he considers his options, and the creak of the bed as he shifts closer. You keep yourself loose-limbed and pliant as he carefully, oh so carefully curls an arm around you and tugs you towards the center of the bed, just barely shy of his body. He tucks the blanket snugly around you and settles there; turned towards you with his arm draped over your side, his palm pressed warmly against your back, shielding you from the frigid stone. 

 

 

As you drift off, you congratulate yourself on not only acquiring a fine new elezen-sized space heater, but _also_ managing to successfully dodge another dose of medicine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HO HO HOLY SHIT is this overdue. My bad!  
> Happy holidays wherever you are, folks! o/


	7. Awareness

Consciousness trickles in slowly, like grains of sand within an hourglass. You feel a deep sense of absolute tranquility as you've only experienced a handful of times before, when Hydaelyn would deign to speak with you, suspended as you were in your cocoon of brilliant Light. All is right with the world.

 

 **Hear**.

 

Breathing that's not yours, and a heartbeat that pounds slow and strong in counterpoint to your own. The steady rhythm lulls you into a contemplative state, not quite awake and not truly asleep, but conscious enough to consider how pleasant that sound is.

 

 **Feel**.

 

Warmth. A protective presence. You move your head a little as your neck twinges in complaint at your cramped posture, murmuring sleepily as you do so, coming to rest with your forehead pressed against the hollow of someone's neck. The arm draped over your side moves to pull you in flush against your bedmate, fingers spread over the nape of your neck with forearm pressed along the length of your spine. His thumb traces soothing circles on your skin until you relax once more. His breath stirs your hair as he exhales, a measured attempt at stillness as the arm around you tightens ever so slightly. The movement makes you frown a little - making a noise of complaint - and pat around with your own arm until you can hug your 'body pillow' to keep him from further disturbing your slumber, snaking your hand under his shirt to run your fingers along his skin.

Above you, someone makes a choked noise. Your bedmate freezes.

 

 _ **Think**_.

 

You decide that if this is a dream, you're in no particular hurry to get up. Your subconscious is doing an outstanding job of creating the basis of some new fantasies for when you're on a really long, boring trek. This might be the first time you've recognized someone by scent while asleep. Pine, mint, and other subtle notes you can't identify.

Experimentally, you nuzzle your dream lover's neck. His fingers violently twitch against your back.

 

Before you can _really_ think up interesting ways to push dream boundaries, your musing is broken by a question spoken into your ear that wakes you more swiftly than if you'd been tossed into the Coerthas river.

"As pleasant as this is, my dear, there is work yet to be done. We'll miss breakfast."

You jump as if electrified. It's only Haurchefant's arm that keeps you from bolting backwards and possibly cracking your head against the wall, looking to all the world like someone's dunked your face into a bucket of red dye. Before you can gather your scattered wits and sadly bruised pride enough to form an apology, Haurchefant takes one look at your flustered mess of an expression (complete with frankly horrendous bedhead) and breaks into helpless laughter. You pull your pillow over your head to hide your shame until he gets his giggles under control.

"And here I was congratulating myself on seducing the vaunted Warrior with naught but charm and proximity! Ah, vanity." He chuckles a little, rubbing your upper arm in a consoling gesture you know is only for your sake. You can _hear_ the grin in his voice. "I must say, I much prefer this to waking up alone. Could we not cuddle more often?"

 

You throw your pillow at him for that. The satisfaction of nailing him square in the face somewhat mitigates your embarrassment.

 

Later, after you both compose yourselves and get ready for the day, he helps you change the dressing on your side with a noted lack of suggestive comments. To your surprise he conducts himself like a perfect gentleman, keeping your mind off of your morning blunder with amiable talk about food and weapons, and even asking you for your opinion on the letter he'd been writing the night before. He does press a vial of medicine on you, however, and refuses to budge until you down the foul stuff in one gulp.

"I'd quite forgotten to tell you yesterday, but Master Alphinaud will be joining us anon. He's quite worried about you!" Well _he should be worried,_ your eyes say as you glare hard at the now-empty vial sitting innocuously at the bedside table. Look at the garbage they label 'medicine' around here.

Haurchefant cheerfully ignores your petulant expression and continues.

"Full glad he'll be to see you safely in one piece! I expect he'll want to know how you got in such a state."

That reminds you. While you haphazardly comb your fingers through your hair to get it into a marginally acceptable condition, you nod at the bathtub in the corner and cock an eyebrow in silent question at your host. You haven't had a chance to really get squeaky clean from head to toe for a few days now, and though Alphinaud isn't the type to really get nosy about the state of your upkeep, he does notice these things in his own quiet fashion. He might think you're more severely injured than you feel you are if you aren't permitted to bathe yourself.

"Yes, yes, of course. Water can be heated for you while we eat, if you wish."

 

There are a few small quirks you take note of at the breakfast table after your chagrin fades a little. Haurchefant seems... happier. His tone is light when he speaks with you. There's a spring in his step that you've never seen before, and he openly waggles an eyebrow at you in teasing fashion when nobody else is looking. Medguistl actually notes you slowly going redder and redder in the face and asks if you're feeling well as she serves you breakfast - you hurriedly assure her that you're in fine form, despite the fact the Lord of Dragonhead is outrageously flirting with you while the cook's back is turned.

You briefly entertain the idea of shoving a handful of snow down his shirt later in revenge.

But no... such childish retribution is far beneath you. If he wants to badger you with overtures of courtship, you're quite prepared to fight fire with fire.

 

 

Perhaps then you can convince yourself the fondness you have for him is just friendship at play. Nothing more, nothing less.


	8. Convalescence

The source of such pleasant fragrance in Haurchefant's quarters quickly becomes apparent when it comes time for your long overdue bath.

 

It's with wide-eyed wonder that you take in the array of soaps and oils arranged neatly on the shelf by the towel rack, within easy reach from the tub itself. It seems the bottles are organized by type with labels outwards for easy identification. Most seem to be largely untouched, the wax seals unbroken, save for perhaps half a dozen modest bottles clustered on a separate small table tucked in the corner.They must be a custom order, since you can't find any particular brand to attribute it to. You carefully unscrew the lid of one and take a curious sniff - a slow smile curling your lips at the rich medley of woody scents that you now associate with Haurchefant's presence.

As for the others... you can hardly blame a man of any self-respecting bearing for steering clear of some of the gaudier colognes. One, if you can read the (pointlessly) elaborate script upon the label correctly, claims to be "Miqo'te Mint Essence - Irresistible for that attractive young Miqo'te bachelor/ette in your life! (Disclaimer: not intended for use as an aphrodisiac. Use responsibly.)"

You shove that particular bottle furthest away from the tub. Just to be safe.

 

In the end, you select a bar of plain soap over the other fancy options simply because reeking like a bouquet of expensive flowers all day would irritate you on a subconscious level. The most basic pleasures are often the most effective in your experience, and the combination of hot water with practical handmade toiletries does wonders to ease the ache in your muscles. You sink into the water almost up to your nose and close your eyes to to better enjoy such a rare luxury.

 

Later, you're just in the act of lacing up your breeches and pulling a clean new tunic on when a knock at the door interrupts your quiet time - despite the fact the flagstones are uncomfortably cold against the soles of your feet, you hurriedly squeeze what water you can out of your hair prior to making your way over to the entrance.

"Done already? What excellent timing!"

Haurchefant greets you with his customary cheer as steps in. You stand to one side, holding the door open only long enough for his body to clear the entrance before shutting it behind him as quickly as possible with a muted 'THUD'. It's snowing outside again, and the blast of snowflake laden wind sends a wave of goosebumps over your damp skin. The brief discomfort lasts only for a moment and subsides a second or two later; besides, the sunny smile sent your way by Haurchefant does plenty to dispel the cold.

He seems to have brought a few things with him, which you eye curiously while toweling off your hair as best you can. Bandages, medicine (met by reflexive face scrunching in disgust on your end)... general bits and bobs for keeping your wounds clean from the looks of it.

Haurchefant seats himself on the side of his bed and pats the space next to him with a smile so dazzling you can only halfheartedly drag your feet as you move to comply. It's the same old routine as before you'd moved from the infirmary. Just different hands doing the poking and prodding.

Before you can sit, he places a hand on your hip to stop you.

"This may sound passing odd, but could you lie on your side?" Haurchefant grins, scooting backwards on the bed and patting his lap with an expression of utmost innocence. You aren't fooled. "It will make the task much easier."

You give him a wary stare - _do you try this line on all the Warriors of Light?_ \- but slowly, reluctantly, stretch out as requested, facing away from him with your injured side up and your head resting on your arms. It's not terribly comfortable at first, but with some adjustment from both parties and commandeering some extra pillows to prop up your torso, it's not exactly cramped either. He waits for you to relax before setting to work.

Replacing dressings is old hat for experienced warriors like you both so the process goes smoothly as far as you can tell. His hands don't stray out of the modest zone, remaining strictly within the boundaries of your ribcage and hip. With this reassurance, you study his profile from your resting place, the strong lines of his face cast into sharp relief by the glow of the fire in the hearth. You absently note he must be quite handsome by Ishgardian standards; noble of features, long of ear, high military station... not to mention his work ethic. Sleeping in this morning must have done him some good to judge by the less prominent rings around his eyes in comparison to a day hence. The demand for his attention in running a military outpost no doubt plays a part in him not breaking the hearts of many a young noblewoman. Or man, if that's the case.

 

"Whence comes this stare of yours? Did I smudge ink on my face or somesuch?" Oops. Caught red-handed. Still, you aren't honestly embarrassed for openly admiring a man's good looks and merely shrug in response, which gets you a knowing chuckle from Haurchefant while he gently applies a soothing unguent to the knitting wound marring your skin. The insistent itching that's been dogging your heels all day immediately subsides to your great relief. "I _had_ hoped to arrive sooner, in all honesty. To help you bathe, fetch your towel, or mayhap even to sneak a peek."

His touch trails along the line of your ribcage, so featherlight as to leave a tingling sensation in his wake. The tone of his voice has the usual note of teasing, but you do detect an undercurrent of what could very well be a question... a hesitation of sorts that better explains the hopeful spark in his eyes. Ever the honorable knight, your Elezen friend. He delays because he wants to offer you an opportunity to gracefully back out.

Your response is to thoughtfully rake one hand through your still wet hair, brows furrowed as if deeply considering the ramifications of the situation...

...and you then  _strike faster than a snake_ , flicking a spray of residual water at his face with your fingers, grinning playfully the whole while. The shocked expression on his face gives way to an exceedingly hungry sidelong look as he wipes away droplets of scented bathwater from his cheek and jaw.

"Why, you sly little coeurl! Is that a challenge?" Haurchefant bursts out laughing and leans over, wrapping his arms around your torso to keep you from wriggling away (or from falling off his lap, and thereby the bed, which you greatly appreciate).  Your mingled laughter (and _faux-_ _protests_ from your end) fills the room as he comically uses your tunic to dry off the side of his face you've so cleverly assaulted, rubbing his jaw against your upper arm, your shoulder-

He pauses at your neck. Breathes in deeply.

 

"Blessed Halone, but you  _tempt_ a man." Is that... was that a Twelve-damnedpurr? Mayhap you should have given this more thought. Ah, well... the thrill of leaps of faith without looking first is sort of your calling card, so there's not much reason to turn a new leaf now. Far too late for that. Besides, you're starting to rather like the change in timbre of his voice, or the way his breath washes across your skin. You trace a fingertip along the length of his ear - a sensitive area to judge from his arms tightening around you, pulling you close as he cranes his head to press a chaste kiss to your temple.

 

A knock on the door interrupts what's shaping up to be the beginning of a memorable evening.

 

"Lord Haurchefant? It's Alphinaud!"

 

Gods **damn** that boy's punctuality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, RL picked up there for a while. Sorry for the delay!


	9. Invigorate

"The Lady of the Vortex is come again. I'm sure I need not expand as to how disastrous it would be should the Ixal be permitted more time to gather crystals." Alphinaud murmurs, his tone measured in the way that you've come to recognize from whenever he's under an undue amount of stress. Not that you can blame him, really, considering the way his concern for your condition prefaced the news. He avoids meeting your gaze as best he can, instead staring down at the cup nestled between his hands as he talks. "The Adders are brave and stalwart, but they lose more caravans each day, and the beastmen grow bolder yet."

 

You immediately sit ramrod straight in your chair, hot cocoa completely forgotten on the table in front of you, as you stare down your young friend with the kind of intense focus usually only afforded to birds of prey. So intent are you on absorbing the situation that you have no way of seeing Haurchefant shooting you a worried look of his own. The leather of your gloves creaks quietly as your fingers curl into a fist so tight you may very well leave bruises on your palms. Impotence. Frustration. Gods know how badly you wish you could strike out here and now to quash the latest Primal rebirth - with Rhalgr as your witness, you'd gladly take Garuda's head mounted on a pike as a trophy if not for her and her kin having the irritating tendency to dissipate into aether upon defeat.

While you stew in your helpless fury, Haurchefant leans forwards and steeples his fingers just below his chin, his expression grim.

 

"One question, Master Alphinaud. Has the Seedseer not considered a temporary embargo on trade through the Shroud? If naught else, it could stem the flow of crystals to the Primal and buy us time until a solution may be found. Surely goods may be rerouted for the time being. I would gladly lend mine own aid where I can."

"Yes, I suggested much the same." Alphinaud glances up from his contemplation with a wry quirk of his eyebrows. "She seemed amenable to the idea, but I can't very well expect the tradesfolk to see it the same way. An embargo is a stopgap measure at best. Garuda must be felled."

 

The lull in conversation says volumes on it's own, and you certainly don't need anyone to point out the obvious when it's right under your nose. The Adders are brave men and women who don't have the same protection against Tempering that you have been afforded through the Echo. Your mulish expression must speak for itself, since Alphinaud sighs heavily and rubs at the bridge of his nose with his fingertips; a common occurrence whenever you disagree on something, which is fairly often. You're quite sure if he suggests throwing the average adventurer at a Primal you'd happily turn the brunt of your most withering glare on him without further notice.

"You must get well soon, friend. Your presence is sorely missed now more than ever."

 

Well.

Right then.

You'll hop to it.

 

 

The next morning, you're up and out the door before Haurchefant even wakes. You steal a few glances at him while you get ready for the day, admiring the messy fall of blue-silver hair shot through with gleaming threads from the shaft of sunlight falling through the window. The peaceful scene is such that you nearly jump off the bed in fright as he emits a snore loud enough to wake the dead entombed in Tam-tara, rubs at his nose with one hand, and flops over on his other side with his face firmly buried in his pillow; one long arm resting across the empty space where you used to be. Good ol' Haurchefant. Questionably affectionate even when he's not conscious.

With your armor comfortably cinched on and feeling a little more like the competent adventurer you're supposed to be, you quietly cross the room to the weapons rack by the door; set up specifically to house the small armory you carry around with you. The Lord of Dragonhead continues making his muffled snores in gentle obliviousness to his bedmate's escape while you consider your other options for weaponry, brow furrowed in thought. Your axe would be too heavy for you yet, your tomes and rods too mentally exhausting to align your energies without lighting yourself on fire, and you don't even spare your pugilist's knuckles a glance. Gods, that would be just asking to drop something heavy and break your toes. Your lance, however... well, at the very least you could aim it in the right direction and just fall with all your weight on it. Worst case scenario you use it as a crutch instead of pinning your quarry to the ground like a butterfly on a pin.

 

Tiptoeing as silently as you can manage, you crack open the door, slip outside, and take in a healthy lungful of crisp morning air. You're lucky nobody but the training dummy witnesses the resulting coughing fit as the freezing cold promptly sends a bolt of discomfort straight up your sinuses.

 

The sluggishness of your limbs is quickly enough to frustrate you after an initial test run, and you're forced to adapt your warmup drills to compensate for it. Shorter lunges. No flashy jumps. Economical movement only, no ridiculously wide sweeps of the shaft to trip up a foe, no strategic leaps backwards to disengage. Stab. Stab. Adjust stance. Stab. Stab. It's mind-numbingly boring without the theatrics. Just balancing your weight on the balls of your feet becomes a chore - before long, your calves are screaming bloody murder and you've barely beaten the stuffing out of the training dummy you've chosen for your victim today. You're very glad indeed that you've settled on a lance after being reduced to leaning heavily on it while you try to catch your breath after what to you seems as not even close to a full bell of practice.

A muted 'crunch' of a footstep in the snow nearby clues you in to an audience. You don't need to turn and look to know who it is, although having a hand come to rest lightly on your back does make you feel a little better after ineffectually beating up a sack of straw for a while, even if the snow crusted on your leggings is damnable evidence towards you stumbling during your routine a handful of times.

"You mustn't drive yourself so hard before breakfast, my friend. Not even the Knights Dragoon train on an empty stomach." His tone is gentle, not pressing a demand to come in and eat, but rather suggesting it instead in the manner of a man well liked by his peers. He remains steadfastly at your side as you laboriously limp your way back across the camp again, too stubborn and set in your ways to consider asking for help as you walk, but not turning aside the steadying touch he offers from time to time across icy patches. If he has anything to say about you vanishing that morning, he doesn't mention it, rather giving you the usual smiles and chatter over a filling breakfast and a pot of tea.

 

When Sauveterre arrives with your newest batch of medicine (grumbling as always), you take your dose without complaint.

 

 

After all, you've got a Primal to slay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shhhh this was totally here all along. Not late in the slightest. Nope, no sir.


	10. Power Surge

You're not ready.

You know it, and Sauveterre knows it, but in some rare bond the gods have seen fit to bestow upon you, the normally sharp-tongued healer remains silent, studiously binding and rebinding your wounds both old and new. The worst of it has passed - she'd informed you earlier in the morning, ignoring your wincing while picking apart the rough stitching to pluck from your new spectacular scar - that _wasn't_ , of course, a bloody invitation to go throwing yourself into danger at the slightest provocation. A fortnight of rest. Or better, two. The fact she says nothing now after the gossip about Garuda has gotten out says more in the awkward pause than a tongue-lashing would. She does not approve of the risks you're taking regardless of your strained relationship.

  
Some part of you suspects Haurchefant and Alphinaud agree. You'd caught sight of them now and then, lurking around the training grounds in a painfully obvious display of overprotectiveness that would normally be amusing if it weren't making you prone to self-conscious mistakes even the greenest recruit would avoid.

You're not ready.

  
But _by the Twelve_ , you're not going to let that stop you from succeeding anyway. It's not like you haven't faced the Lady of the Vortex before, and while the Primal's unstable mind made her dangerously unpredictable, she wasn't prone to elaborate traps either. You're anticipating a pitched battle like usual. Wham, bam, thank you ma'am, and good riddance. Don't let the door hit your tailfeathers on the way out.

Alphinaud, bless his soul, is ever the diplomat - trying every angle to suggest, coerce, coax, and otherwise attempt to convince you to at least take along one or two fellow adventurers. "Safety in numbers", he'd claimed.

  
In an open space, mayhap. In a small arena, often prone to shrinking in size or being littered with that swiving **exploding feather garbage** Garuda was so fond of last time? Nope. You don't have time to babysit should your newfound companions be found sorely lacking, and even an experienced warrior would find it difficult to dance between twisters with more bodies to coordinate with. One careless stumble over some other person's foot, and you, or they, would go facefirst into a gale that would shred them to a fine paste. You made your counter argument while resting from your latest sparring session with the training dummy, breathing harder than usual, but as resolute in your convictions as ever.

That doesn't stop him from trying to change your mind, regardless of how stubbornly you dig in your heels on the matter. You're starting to suspect he's trying to just wear you down by pestering you all day when you're not otherwise engaged.

Speaking of which...

With a grim eye, you survey your handiwork. The training dummy for today is looking noticeably worse for the wear, spilling some hay stuffing here and there from ragged holes in the sacking making up the main body mass, the helmet dinged maybe a little more obviously than before. You're by no means as deadly as usual, but it's good to see _something_ is coming out of you pushing yourself so hard. It's just a matter of putting the force of your lance arm in the right place to make those glancing blows land where they hurt the most. Quite the task, when you can scarcely level the tip of your lance with precision without it immediately beginning to waver due to your lasting weakness.

Another bell, you finally decide. Another bell of drills, then you'll go inside and warm up a little. Maybe eat something, if anything can be scraped together without calling too much attention to yourself. A slice of bread and some hot tea is good enough.

The deathglare you're unconsciously levelling at your dummy-ish foe is momentarily broken by something grey and fuzzy obscuring your vision prior to it settling around your collar, startling you into a reflexive step backwards where you bump into - to absolutely no surprise - Haurchefant, his hands swathed in the same grey fabric he's so very carefully arranging around your neck. A scarf, you realize, after surreptitiously rubbing your cheek against what can only be a garment crafted from karakul wool.

"You must take care not to fall ill again." He grins at you as you turn to face him, still carefully arranging the scarf snugly around your neck so it overlaps your chin a little. "Such news would bode ill for me, no doubt. Could you imagine how our gracious chirurgeon would respond? I shudder to think of it!"

Hm. Well, if he was made to take some of that awful medicine too, that'd be perfectly fair in your eyes. Turnabout is fair play.

He laughs at your dire threat with no small measure of amusement, but doesn't protest being subjected to a fate of absolutely disgusting medication. Instead, he gently tugs on your arms until you stop folding your fists against your chest in a vain attempt to conserve warmth (not swiving likely, the way your knuckles look so painfully red from the cold), removing his own gloves so he can warm your hands between his own.

"I had thought to make a snack for myself, ere long. Naught approaching what Medguistl can make, alas." He murmurs in an offhand fashion entirely at odds with the playful sparkle in his eyes, pulling you forwards a little, turning your hands over to just lightly brush his lips over your knuckles, redness and all. "Pray, join me?"

You heave a dramatic sigh and glance over your shoulder at the cold-as-Shiva's-left-arsecheek training grounds as if seriously considering declining the offer, sparking some quiet laughter from your companion when you finally give a casual shrug and rearrange his arm over your shoulder instead. All.. comrade-like, that's all.  
And if one of your hands just happens to snake around and give him a mischievous pinch on that cute butt of his, so what? It's not like the two guards within earshot heard the undignified noise their brave and glorious leader made, right?

You have no doubt Haurchefant will get you back for it later, of course, but the grin on his face is worth it for now.

You're not ready. Not yet. Especially when it's all so... _new_.  
New isn't bad. It just makes you hesistant. But then, it would be difficult not to grow at least a little attached to such a patient man.

 

 _Attached_. That's all. Not infatuated. Never.

That assurance rings a little less solid than it used to before. You don't mind so much.

 

 

You're not ready, but in time, maybe you will be.


	11. Phlebotomize

You've been prepped, polished, and pestered with strategic advice within an inch of your life. And frankly you're quite sure you're done being the center of attention for the next twenty lifetimes.

"Lift your arm, if you please."

You comply, bearing with Corentiaux's poking and prodding to ensure your armor is settled properly, all the belts cinched tight and the clasps closed firmly, encasing your body in a second skin of protective metals - the added weight offset by the materia affixed to various areas, energizing your body with much-needed strength. Normally you'd be well able to suit yourself up in less time (and _absolutely_ with less fuss involved), but your last run-in with the aevis meant not only are you still barely shy of being able to twist your torso certain ways, but your usual haubergeon still had a gaping tear and had yet to be repaired. As such, you're borrowing from Camp Dragonhead's armory. Whomever the chainmail belongs to had rather longer arms than you, and were of slightly wider build, necessitating some creative rebuckling here and there to accommodate the extra bulk.

You'd cut a fine manly figure from a distance, if the viewer didn't look too closely and squinted a little. Pity the extra 'bicep' mass didn't equate to more arm power.

The grim silence, broken only by the soft clinks of Haurchefant's lieutenant patiently navigating the many fiddly plates and laces behind you (To say dragoon mail is 'prickly' would be a massive understatement), is heavy with anticipation. You can practically feel the anxiety radiating from Alphinaud as he paces up and down by the door, pausing now and then to glance out the window at the ominous fog that had descended upon the garrison early the same morning, approximately a bell before dawn. Haurchefant is uncharacteristically nowhere to be seen, but you can hear his voice faintly through the windowpanes now and then, queerly muffled by the oppressive mist.

 

He'd asked - no, swiving near _demanded_ \- to come with you, despite the combined refusal from both yourself and Alphinaud. The latter reminding the Ishgardian knight that he, unlike you, had no protection from Garuda's tempering aura should he stray too close, and the former simply due to the fact you'd be damned before you put Haurchefant in a position to be seriously hurt. An everyday skirmish with everyday bandits is one thing... slaying a Primal with no previous experience to fall back on is completely another. Besides, you'd already stomped the feathery tittychicken into oblivion once before, this time would be a walk in the park in comparison. You know now what kind of tricks she has up her proverbial sleeves.

Haurchefant _had_ cracked a weak smile at your posturing. But as you'd both gone to bed, he'd curled around you, cradling your back against his chest with his arms wrapped protectively around your waist. Neither of you had slept, really, whether out of some lingering desire to enjoy each other's presence or simply out of anticipation for the following morning.

 

"All lies well. Halone watch over you." You turn to face Corentiaux, matching his courtly bow with a nod of your own prior to placing the last piece of your armor over your head, covering your eyes with the characteristic horned helm.

All the better to headbutt Garuda out of spite and hopefully plant a spike somewhere tender.

 

Your armor is enough to dull the chill as you step outside to meet the guardsman holding a chocobo destrier for you by the reins - your method of transportation to get to Ixali stomping grounds as quickly and quietly as possible.

Still no sign of Haurchefant. You can't in good conscience blame him; in the event of your failure, Camp Dragonhead would be the first line of defense against the Ixal and Garuda, and no doubt requires meticulous planning for bulking up the defenses and securing supply lines from various other Ishgardian strongholds. You'd sort of hoped he'd come to wish you well, but...

No matter. You make your own victories, well wishes or not.

"Come back safely, my friend." Alphinaud calls up to you as you swing up to the saddle on your bird, a little stiff, but pointedly refusing to flinch as your side twinges in protest. In response, you give him a jaunty salute with one hand, flick the reins with the other, and whistle shrilly - spurring your chocobo into an explosive leap forwards that carries you across the camp and through the gates in half a dozen long-legged strides.

 

Sneaking into Natalan is as easy as ever. After hiding your steed away in a sheltered alcove with a few pats on the beak and some krakka roots to tide it over until your triumphant return (with or without confetti and fireworks) you skulk around the rocky areas between gates, ducking through when the Ixal sentries trudge past on patrol. You'd regrettably had to bloody your hands once when a watchwolf got a little _too_ inquisitive upon wandering downwind of you, but aside from that little hiccup your excursion goes remarkably smoothly. A left here, a right there, and you're nose-to-nose with the gigantic Aetheryte tucked away in Natalan's snowy innards. It occurs to you, while you place your hand against the gently humming crystal's surface, that it would make things much simpler to everyone to simply blow the Aetheryte itself to smithereens.

It also occurs to you, as you blink into existence in the eye of the vortex, that you don't recall seeing Haurchefant anywhere on the battlements when you'd left Dragonhead. That in itself would be worrying indeed where it not for the fact you have no time whatsoever to dwell on the subject.

 

Seeing as... you know.

There's a Primal pretty much eyeball-to-eyeball with you.

 

The initial deadly rain of razor-sharp feathers is something you can anticipate, and you throw yourself sideways with some assistance from the butt of your lance to halt your momentum, ignoring Garuda's shriek of laughter as you're forced to leap and zigzag unpredictably between feathers and gale winds alike. Occasionally one or two would score a glancing hit, bouncing off your armor with a resounding _CLANG_ and burst of sparks as the quills scrape over the surface. For such light objects they have formidable power in their momentum, leaving a deep-seated ache behind characteristic of future bruising. As you'd feared, you're not quite fast enough to dodge them all, and not yet strong enough to brute force your way through either. The Primal herself gleefully chases you around the arena, talons spread wide, teeth bared, darting here and there so suddenly it's difficult to anticipate where she'll pop up next. It's evident she's simply toying with you for the time being. Those feathers - while unarguably painful - fall just shy of the accuracy indicative of killing intent.

 

Same old, same old. You'd just have to get featherbrain all riled up, and she'd start making mistakes.

 

During one of your headlong sprints from cover to cover, you unexpectedly pivot in place, lashing out viciously with the tip of your lance. Garuda is completely unprepared by your abrupt change of tactics, and strayed too close - resulting in you shredding the pinfeathers on one of her four wings (rendering it useless) and gashing her thigh deeply enough to have severed a tendon, had she not been made entirely of aetheric energies.

Fortunately, you're already bunkered down behind a convenient rocky pile when the shriek of rage comes, well out of reach as the patch of grass you'd been standing on is promptly skewered by approximately two dozen feathers, which immediately explode into a whirlwind of shredded grass bits and chunks of earth, torn out of the ground by sheer force.

 

Really, for an almighty Primal, you'd think she'd learn from her mistakes the _first_ time you'd stabbed her in the drumsticks.


	12. Blood for Blood

 

   
_"A falcon, tow'ring in her pride of place, Was by a mousing owl hawk'd at and kill'd."_  
_\- William Shakespeare; Macbeth, Act 2, Scene 4_

 

* * *

 

Garuda's talons slash inches from your face, cutting a dead zone in the gale winds pressing you inevitably closer in to the center - unyielding, unworried, and utterly _inconvenient_ , seeing as you're rapidly running out of options.

 

But still you dodge, bending almost at a 90 degree angle to retaliate with a clumsy diagonal swipe of your lance, the tip leaving a gleaming crescent moon afterimage as it shears through several of the Primal's pinfeathers that had been whistling through the air at you. If the patched wound in your side has held under the stress for this long, you had no idea; at this point pain is so low on the priority scale, your brain has automatically shunted it into the category of " _worry about later_ ". In no way are you in any shape to be focusing on anything other than immediate survival, anyway - Garuda still moves far faster than you can, and it's taking all of your concentration to predict where she'll be just a second or two before she gets there. It's this gift of awareness that allows you to evade being maimed by such narrow margins.

Frankly, you're pleasantly surprised at yourself for being able to imitate a greased eel for so long in your condition; frustrating a Primal for anything more than a second or two is clearly another skill you should add to your steadily growing list. Alongside "chocobo whisperer" and "coeurl chew toy", anyway.

 

With a bit of breathing room to take stock of the situation, you hop back two paces and take in a deep lungful of chilly air, warily studying Garuda's state with the one good eye you have remaining - the other having long since been crusted shut with blood from the many gashes on your brow. Served you right for thinking you could just swat an explosive aside, even if that explosive feather was shaped in such a way that it took a moment for you to automatically register it as a danger. Your helm had taken the brunt of the damage, but still... nobody can really take quill shrapnel full in the face without a few bumps and scratches to show for it.

Wryly, you think to yourself the scars would make for interesting conversation later. It's not so easy to hide that sort of thing under a few innocuous clothing accessories quite like the others you've collected.

 

" _Wriggle,_ little worm! I will enjoy feasting on your aether!"

 

Ah, right. Primal monologue.

Ignoring Garuda's grating laughter, you cock your head and inspect your pauldron for a moment (keeping the Primal well within your peripheral vision - you're not _that_ cocky), picking off a few pieces of shredded grass between your gauntleted fingertips. Not as bad as Titan, at least... you were _still_ finding grains of sand in the nooks and crannies your Warrior set. You take your time removing bits of debris, seemingly unconcerned that the edges of the arena are once again contracting, leaving less and less room...

 

"-o hope! No escape! **_NONE!_** Hee hee HA HA _HAA_ -"

 

**Plunk.**

 

...yeah, you may or may not have started getting slightly annoyed at all the megalomaniac cackling. And not to say you _did_ just pick a stone that had been lodged in your breastplate and bounce it off Garuda's forehead, but nobody can deny it didn't just shut her up mid-syllable either.

You're a fan of unorthodox strategy. Is that too obvious?

 

Honestly, Garuda herself seems not entirely sure whether to spontaneously implode from rage over the fact you've ruined her dramatic buildup, or the sheer audacity of it all as she floats in place for a moment or two. There's something to be said for having an irreverent sense of humor in this sort of situation - any regular adventurer would politely wait for her to finish talking, but not you. Cutting off the evil villain act was almost always a tried and true method to whip your opponent into a frenzy in less than five seconds.

The cheeky grin you give her immediately afterwards certainly doesn't help the matter either. It's a shame your visor is down, or she'd see the raised eyebrow to go with it.

 

" **YOU DARE?!** "

 

The slight shrug of your shoulders says it all: _Couldn't resist_.

When the Primal charges, shrieking her fury, you're prepared. Down come the talons, wickedly curved sickles that skitter off your lance as you pivot to one side, arms straining under the weight of her unnatural strength, and let her harmlessly barrel right past, narrowly missing the hulking boulder on the outside of the gale. Bit of a shame, really... you'd sort of hoped she'd just charge facefirst into the thing and knock herself out. The idea of plucking her feathers one by one, stuffing them into a bag, and selling them for massive profit was nearly as good a reason as how hilarious that story would be to tell to anyone that asked how your mission went. Oh well.

Goaded past reasoning, the Primal continues to bull-rush you in predictable lines, which you either dodge or punish with jabs of your lance, tearing free feathers and aether from steadily worsening superficial slices and punctures. Ten, twelve, sixteen, twenty... Grimly, you increase the strength you throw behind your lance arm, capitalizing on Garuda's flagging speed. They had a saying in the Far East for combat like this: _d_ _eath by a thousand cuts_. You didn't like it, naturally - it was always better to finish it cleanly - but neither are you an idiot. It costs you nothing to play the long game until you had a sufficient opening to end it.

When that opportunity comes, you don't hesitate to meet the charge (slow, clumsy, weak from bleeding aether from a hundred places) with a strong upward thrust, piercing Garuda through the chest cavity until the tip of your weapon bursts through her back in a shower of feathers. The rush of victory is such that you lower your guard ----

Until a fresh line of pain blazes across your shoulders, and you tear your lance free from the corpse of Chirada - damn it, _damn it,_ you forgot that stupid birdbrain could make clones - just in time to put all your momentum into driving your weapon straight through Suparna's eye as she rips her claws from your back. Garuda capitalizes on the opening as she swoops in from your blind side and catches your arms with one oversized hand, crushing them close to your body like bands of iron, and there's nothing you can do but curse and struggle as she tightens her grip, your armor groaning as it resists the cutting edges of her talons.

You feel, rather than hear, something inside you give under the pressure. Your vision goes black for a solid second as the pain floods your senses, overriding whatever blocking your brain is doing automatically, and you can taste the blood on your lips as you fight to drag a fraction of air into your crushed lungs.

 

Gods. Damn. It. This is what you get for pushing your luck.

 

"No more tricks, my impudent little bug." Garuda purrs, giving you another squeeze that sends a spray of blood from your mouth; you buck wildly in her grip, trying your damndest to move past the tunnel effect messing with your vision. Up close, you can really, truly _see_ the insanity in the Primal's eyes for yourself. She leans in closer - something you can barely register in your current state, all things considered... you're somewhat  _busy_ with other issues - studying her prey with the kind of malicious glee that reminds you of a child about to pull the wings off a fly.

Abruptly, you can't breathe. Not in the way it was before - you could draw shallow breaths, but the pressure on your chest made it difficult. Now, it was like... being in vacuum. There simply wasn't anything to draw in.

_Pissing excuse of a whoreson -_ the realization hits just as your body seizes, bucking and writhing under Garuda's grip in the hindbrain-triggered response of a trapped animal - _of all the times to pull out a new trick._ Intellectually, it makes sense, being the Big Bad of the Breeze and all that, but to literally pull the breath out of a target's body, and then withhold it... you'd be grudgingly impressed, if it weren't for the fact you are now in the process of very painfully _suffocating_. It doesn't matter to you that Garuda's still speaking. You can't hear her over the sluggish heartbeat drumming in your ears - the urgent pressure in your chest matched only with the burning ache in your throat, your lungs, the distant, hazy quality of your vision --

 

She's closer now. Eye-to-eye, her smile widening as she watches the life fade from you inch by struggling inch, not even bothering to squash you cleanly and thereby end her fun.

 

No.

_No_.

 

Your spiteful, stubborn, vindictive streak rears it's ugly head in full force. If it's your time to die, fine. _Like hell_ are you going to go out meekly.

 

Distantly, you can hear the metallic scrapes of your armor as you continue to stubbornly cling to life, your struggles getting weaker and weaker. You let your head fall back, every muscle going limp, praying to the Twelve that the Primal cradling your life in her hands has never seen the 'possum' strategy before.

A little closer, and --

Bingo.

Snarling, you jerk your head forwards with all your remaining strength, feeling something ' _snap_ ' under the brutal impact translating through the metal of your helm (No pain though. Huh. Maybe you're past that point.), and you're promptly dropped facefirst into the dirt while the Lady of the Vortex clutches at her newly rearranged facial features with both hands, wailing.

You drag yourself to your lance on hands and knees, wheezing - each movement torture in itself as your broken ribs scrape soft tissue never meant to be jostled in such a way - to rise to a kneeling position, forcing numb arms to simultaneously twist and brace the butt of your weapon against the dirt, _one last stand, Twelve watch over you_ \--

\-- Garuda, one hand clamped over her face, frothing at the mouth with renewed anger, takes your lance straight through the clavicle with a wet 'CRUNCH' of snapping bone, her outstretched talons whistling past your head by mere inches. The impact alone tears the lance from your hands. You almost wouldn't notice the eerie loss of sensation in one arm if it weren't for the hollow, obvious popping sensation of a joint being pulled out of place and the following jolt of agony as the nerves register the damage and add it to the steadily growing list of injuries sustained.

 Your eyes meet. Hers, with the wide-eyed bewilderment of a child; yours, burning fever-bright, triumphant, over the bloodiest grin of your career.

The gale winds abruptly go silent as the Primal sags and dissipates into motes of green aether.

 

You're already crumpled to the ground before you can catch yourself.

Dully, you stare at the blades of grass tickling your cheek. Inhaling greedy lungfuls, tasting the sweetness in the air of freshly crushed vegetation with each struggling breath.

 

Processing.

 

 

 You hack out a wet laugh and almost immediately regret it.

Right. Broken ribs.

 

But still. Did you just straight up headbutt a Primal in the face, break their nose, and _then_ pull a complete sucker-punch of a victory straight out of your ass?

 

 

 

_Hells swiving yeah you did._ Gods. That was so satisfying.

 

Haurchefant is absolutely going to blow a gasket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HA HA YEAH so guess who had their ass kicked there and back by midterms?  
> (I did good though so it was worth it)
> 
> Had this fight percolating in my head for a while, mostly around "Man, how badass would it be if Garuda just straight up pulled the air out of your lungs?"  
> Hire me, SE. I have the best ideas for SavageEX mechanics.


	13. Cover

Where, exactly, your Elezen friend had disappeared to back at Camp Dragonhead quickly becomes evident a few minutes after you slowly and painfully slog your way through the snow surrounding the Natalan Aetheryte.

  
You're slow, yes. Weak, absolutely.

  
Certainly not _deaf_.

You can't mistake the bone-rattling report of a Bertha somewhere nearby - the roar of the guns resonates in your chest (you wince, obviously, since just about any stimulation is just a little much right now), undeniable in it's familiarity - the clash of weapons and shouts of combatants are slightly less showy, but gives you enough warning beforehand not to immediately put a spear right between the eyes of the first Ishgardian knight to pop up the moment you round the corner.

Thal's balls. It's absolute swiving chaos.

Natalan burns; Ixal of all disciplines fall under the combined might of a line of Berthas and bowmen, safely hidden behind a defensive line of pikemen and swordsmen alike as they push forward with implacable force. You recognize a few faces from both Dragonhead and Whitebrim Front outposts - was that _Berengeoit_ that just kicked an Ixal magus off a cliff? - which neatly answers whatever questions you'd had earlier in the day. Haurchefant had been a busy boy indeed to have secured so much aid with so little warning.

  
With one arm awkwardly hanging at your side and the other engaged in using your spear like a crutch, you have no illusions about joining in, and promptly change tack to move towards the back line of Elezen and Hyur defending the flanks of the main force; your dragoon armor, while a nuisance at the best of times, still distinctive enough to brand you as an ally even in the absolute anarchy of a pitched battle. Two knights move to your aid, covering your retreat without prompting.

"Ser! This way, quickly." You don't recognize the young man that takes it upon himself to guide the walking wounded - likely from Whitebrim, if he bears the Haillenarte crest - but your gratitude is wordlessly conveyed by giving his arm a weak squeeze as he relieves you of your spear and drapes your good arm over his shoulders, bearing with the brunt of your weight as you both weave through the wooden barricades. It's not Haurchefant, but Yaelle that you get handed off to. How you remember her name is a bit of a miracle, really, but you're pretty sure she's the one that chattered with you about the Fortemps heraldry while you'd waited on the chocobokeep to fetch you a mount. There's a few short exchanges between the younger knight and Yaelle before you're carefully led to where you'd first hidden your chocobo - who, by the way, looks slightly miffed you'd taken so long, and hadn't even thought to bring back a few treats as a reward for waiting so patiently - and hoisted up on the saddle after one aborted attempt that lands you gracefully on your arse. Turns out having one eye to see with royally messes up your depth perception. Who knew?

  
You may or may not have let loose a blistering torrent of cursing that turned your companion slightly pink in the face while she helped you upright.

Whether out of repressed laughter or dismay at your irreverent invocation of the Twelve's various body parts, it's not clear.

In the end you have to be tied to your steed, lacking the fortitude necessary to hold on to the saddlehorn with one arm or to cling with your legs if the bird moved faster than a geriatric shuffle, but after some creative re-purposing of your belt and some twine, you get yourself situated. Yaelle leads the way on her own mount, your chocobo's reins tied to her saddle.

  
The Camp is in a state of high alert when you both ride through the gates. Multiple sets of hands get to work on easing your unresistant body down, perhaps a little less gentle than you'd prefer, but after a wayward palm bumps your dislocated shoulder and you hiss in pain (probably turning white as milk), they treat you much more carefully. You get one glimpse of Corentiaux overseeing the transport of your supplies and spear before you're left at the tender mercies of the chirurgeons.

 _Including_ Sauveterre. She's certainly not happy to see you again.

The no-nonsense head healer wastes little time stripping you down to your skivvies, getting straight to assessing triage. It's in this unfortunate state of undress that Haurchefant bursts in, flushed with either excitement, worry, or something else entirely (frankly, you have no idea).

Suffice it to say he's forcefully ejected just as quickly as he'd entered, with the admonishment to _wait his damned turn_ until the worst of your injuries have been dealt with. By the Fury, why does she put up with that nincompoop, doesn't he have any concept of propriety? And as for _you_ , don't even think for a moment that you've got off scot free, just what did you think you were doing going off and fighting a Primal while injured, do you have any idea what state you've landed yourself in, it's a miracle you're not completely insensate --

You heartily regret not escaping with Haurchefant the moment you'd had the chance.

After a bell or so being thoroughly chastised for your poor life decisions, Sauveterre deems you sound enough to have visitors; for the second time that night, Haurchefant enters (considerably more cautious than his last attempt), immediately taking a seat on your bedside as you give him a wary _look_ with the eye that isn't currently swathed with bandages. He looks pleased with himself. That's rarely good news for you.

Anyway... overkill much? Having a welcoming committee was nice, but...

 

 **Berthas**? Really?

 

He merely beams at you.

 

"Well, I _was_ so very worried." He pats your hand, which you stare venomously at, but he continues on; cheerfully unperturbed by your grumpy reaction to what in your eyes is unnecessary coddling. "My dear friend, I missed your first battle at Snowcloak! How could I live with myself if I failed to stand at your side a second time? You simply must tell me everything that transpired!"

You sigh.

 

Well, at least there won't be any disgusting tonics this time around. Could be worse.

 

"Ah, Sauveterre was kind enough to give me instructions pertaining to your recovery for the next month. Increased medicine dosage for a fortnight."

 

 _UGH_.


End file.
